


Notes

by derangedfangirl



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dear Iceman..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes

  
Passing explicit notes to a fellow officer during a formal ceremony is a a bad fucking plan.    
  
Hell,  Maverick’s call sign is more or less based on a near pathological inability to follow rules, and he’d have been reticent to do this as a reckless 21 year old, let alone a man pushing 35 who’s finally beginning to understand the repercussions of losing his pension.   
  
Still.  
  
Maverick fishes a scrap of paper out of his pocket, borrows a pen from a kindly looking grandmother type, and scribbles a note in quick, near illegible handwriting.  
  
Ice,  
Why the cold shoulder, man?  
-Mav  
  
He re-reads it, winces at the terrible accidental pun, but folds it up into the tiniest square he can manage and meanders over toward Iceman and an (as far as Maverick is concerned) utterly inexplicable Slider in what he hopes is a casual manner, anyway.  Carefully keeping his face neutral, he offers Ice his hand, who takes it with no small amount of confusion, mostly at the uncharacteristic display propriety.    
  
What looks like a handshake is actually a covert exchange of information.    
  
Maverick is momentarily pleased at his own cleverness and slinks off to grab a glass of champagne, although his self-satisfaction falters slightly when he returns to his table and finds that Ice has somehow managed to work a response into the folds of his napkin without anyone noticing.  He shoots Ice a glance across the table, and tries to ignore the amused cast to the weirdly perfect mouth when he catches Maverick’s eye.  He returns his attention to the note, unfolds it as quietly as he can, and pretends to: a. pay attention to the dead boring guest speaker, and,  b. that he doesn’t have to squint to make out Ice’s tiny, economical, engineer’s print  
  
Maverick,  
Are we in middle school now?  Christ.    
Iceman  
  
Maverick rolls his eyes and stuffs it in his pocket, pulls out a crumpled receipt and scrawls,  
  
Pretentious Fuck,  
Yes.  Answer my question.    
-M  
  
Then he slips his hand under the table and places it on Ice’s thigh, unable to totally stifle his smirk when Ice jumps a little.  Maverick pretends not to be fixated on Ice’s reaction, then remembers that Ice doesn’t actually have reactions and fiddles with his fork.  The next note, Ice slides over the table toward Maverick’s hand, abandoning any pretense of paying attention.  
  
Impulsive Manchild,  
I’m not giving you the cold shoulder.    
Ice  
  
Maverick snorts and writes his response just underneath Ice’s, intentionally drops his fork, crawls under the table to ‘find it’, and stuffs the note into Ice’s sock, mostly just to annoy him.    
  
I write your schedule. I know you haven’t been _that_ fucking busy.  Replaced me already?  
  
Iceman, never one to accept defeat, stands and pretends to go to the bathroom, dropping the note down the back of Maverick’s shirt as he passes behind him.  Maverick squirms and tries to think of the best way to extricate it from the back of his tucked-in shirt without attracting attention.  He glances up at Slider, who sneers back and takes an unnecessarily healthy swig of beer.  Mav rolls his eyes and shimmies the sharp bit of paper down his pant leg.  He “drops his fork” again.  
  
Dear Maverick,  
Don’t make me fuck the stupid out of you.  
Sincerely,  
Iceman  
  
He is suddenly in possession of a highly inappropriate boner.  He squirms again.  Ice returns, takes one look at Maverick’s face, and grins his shark-grin.  Maverick swallows thickly.  
  
Why not?  Your place, 10pm.  
  
Slider definitely knows what’s happening now, and is staring resolutely at the speaker behind the podium, clearly restraining himself from trying to read over Ice’s shoulder.  Maverick silently tallies the number of fucks he gives.  He arrives at ‘zero’.  
  
Dear Maverick,  
Why have you stopped addressing me properly?  For all I know you meant to solicit that leggy blonde over there.  You’re going to have to explain what you want; you’re being very vague.  
Yours,  
Iceman  
  
Douche.  Ice always did like to make him ask for it.    
  
Dear _Ice_ man,  
  
Your butt looks great in those dress whites.  It would look even better in my mouth.  I mean—fuck, that wasn’t sexy.  You know what I mean.  
  
Let’s fuck,  
Maverick  
  
He slips out of his chair and silently drops it in Ice’s lap, then makes his way back to the table full of food, mostly because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to school his expression into seriousness if he watches Ice reads it.  
When he returns to the table, Ice has gone… somewhere, but there’s a scrap of paper hiding underneath Maverick’s plate.  He grins, worrying it between his fingers for a moment, anticipating what Ice’s response will be.  Only, when he opens it, it’s not Ice’s spiky script, but Slider’s rather lazier scrawl- he blinks.  
  
Dear Maverick,  
MINE.  
-Slider  
p.s. Unless it’s a threesome.  
p.p.s.  And I get to duct tape your mouth shut.  
  
He looks up at Slider, who pretends not to notice, then back down at the note, then back up at Slider, wondering all the while if this is Ice’s way of fucking with him-  
  
Slider grins, all shiny white teeth and possessiveness as Ice sits back down, muttering something about “Didn’t see Gonzales.  You sure that was him?”  
  
Maverick chokes on his drink and wonders when his pants will loosen up.


End file.
